


Collision Course

by karaokegal



Series: Hugh & Bobby [7]
Category: House M.D. RPF
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Drinking, Hollywood, Horseback Riding, Infidelity, Jealousy, Multi, Oral Sex, RPF, Rimming, Show Business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-07-25 22:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16207109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karaokegal/pseuds/karaokegal
Summary: Three days in Hollywood. Includes The Usual Suspects along with The Who, Jay Leno, smut, angst, guilt, jealousy and a whole lot of name dropping.





	Collision Course

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ August 12, 2007
> 
> Thanks to Beta Goddess Carol for telling me that it wasn't done when I thought it was and for every minor tweak and word selection we sweated over together. I couldn't do without you, hon. Hugs to all my gmail chatters and everyone on my f-list who put up with the whinging and whining along the way.
> 
>  
> 
> [Link to the version of Mad About The boy that Hugh listens to in the story.](https://youtu.be/t7SfcARX_nQ)

_He sat in the back of the limousine with a drink in his hand, thinking how this just wasn’t him at all. Keanu and Ethan, sure. They’d made their peace with stardom and learned to enjoy the trappings and privileges, but Bobby didn’t think of himself that way and didn’t want to. So what was he doing here? In a limo, drinking, unable to look away as Keanu and Ethan…Oh god…Keanu’s face, eyes open, but lost to the world, his mouth forming words that Bobby couldn’t hear but felt in his crotch. His head tilted backwards against the leather seat, exposing his neck to Ethan’s voracious mouth. He saw a close-up of teeth against skin and wondered when his subconscious had turned into a soft-core pornographer. Keanu’s hand moved inside the waist of Ethan’s jeans. The glass fell to the floor of the limo in slow motion as he dropped it so he could reach out for Ethan or Keanu or both, needing to be a part of this instead of just a watcher._

“Bob…”

“Hmmmmm…...what….huh…?”

He’d gotten used to waking up from the dream with a hard-on, but this time he wasn’t alone and he wasn’t with Hugh.

“Gaby?”

“I think you were dreaming. And it feels like a good one.”

He was pressed up to her body, erection nestling against her buttocks through a soft nightgown. The hand that had reached out in his dream was encircling her waist.

“God, you’re frisky,” she said, turning over to meet his embrace.

What could he say?

“I’ve missed you.”

It wasn’t a lie…exactly.

*****

 

_Hope I die before I get old._

Too late for that, Hugh thought, feeling at least ten years older than whatever his publicity bio was admitting to these days.

A quote attributed to Frank Sinatra came to mind. Something about how you’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on. Hugh didn’t think he’d been _that_ pissed last night, but he’d certainly raised a few. Possibly more than a few.

Well, why shouldn’t he? Instead of using the break in filming to fly home, England had come to him in the form of Stephen and two private box tickets to see The Who at the Hollywood Bowl.

Grunberg and the other band members had drooled with various levels of envy, depending on their own likelihood of scoring tickets to the already sold-out show. Only Bob Guiney had the bad taste to point out that Townsend and Daltrey weren’t The Who without Keith and John. He quietly agreed, but it was still Pete and Roger playing those songs, one of which he’d been attached to even before he’d played air piano to it in the first season of House MD.

According to Stephen, “the boys” thought it was the best use of any of their music since they’d started licensing, although it was the three CSI shows that really brought in the loot.

Hugh understood. Everybody had to earn a living, even if it was by growing a beard and saying rude things in a strange accent.

The idea made him smile, but smiling hurt. So did swallowing. He could tell what he’d done to his throat by singing along at the top of his lungs, not to mention the damage inflicted by doing shots with Roger Daltrey. That had to earn points on the “unbelievably cool but insanely self-destructive” scale. House would approve, but Hugh wasn’t so sure, especially since the major topic of conversation had been the accent. Roger wouldn’t shut up about how fucking hard it had been to do American when he’d been shooting a CSI episode a few months back.

Daltrey had also expressed a rather unseemly interest in whether Hugh was fucking “that hot bird.” At least that’s what Hugh thought he’d said, unless he was drunk enough to hallucinate a rock star who still talked like it was 1965. He assumed the “hot bird” in question was Lisa, but wouldn’t put it past an inebriated Roger to think he might have designs on Jennifer. Either way, he hoped he responded with a shrug and a gesture toward his wedding ring. That’s what he remembered doing, but what if he’d really downed another shot and bellowed something like, “No, but there’s this handsome bloke…”?

At some point, the cool factor wore off and Roger was still ranting about how Hugh made the fucking accent look so easy. Even the girls that Hugh assumed were groupies were starting to look bored. He’d never been so grateful to have Stephen as a chaperone.

“Sorry, gents. It’s been a pleasure, but Mr. Laurie serves a cruel taskmaster. I was only allowed to borrow him for tonight’s festivities with the promise that I return him in time for an early call.”

This was complete rubbish. They’d put enough shows in the can to schedule a week’s break before they came back to shoot the Christmas-themed show.

The roadies started clamoring for plot developments. One of the groupies insisted on giving him a phone number to pass on to Jesse. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Jesse and Jen were rather nauseatingly infatuated with each other. Hugh vaguely remembered stumbling off the bus and into the cocoon of the waiting limousine, but very little afterwards.

“Who paid for the car?” he wondered in the croak that seemed to have replaced his usual speaking voice. That would sound lovely on Leno, but having committed, Hugh wasn’t about to cancel.

“Those who count beans for Fox prefer to offer baksheesh instead of honest filthy lucre.”

Upon opening his eyes, he found Stephen contemplating him with an expression made up of equal parts amusement and pity, although his own eyes were still too bleary to pick up any nuances. He wore tan slacks and a violently pink shirt, although it might not be any more violent than anything else in Stephen’s wardrobe, much of which was currently strewn about Hugh’s studio. The “baksheesh” included a room at the Chateau, but Stephen preferred being able to say that he was staying with his good friend, Hugh, even when the statement was a slight misrepresentation.

Stephen had, in fact, stayed in West Hollywood while shooting his previous guest appearance on Bones, but Hugh had been firmly and nearly too happily ensconced in Venice Beach.

This trip of Stephen’s happened to coincide with Gabriella being in town, resulting in a comical scene at Bobby’s temporary abode as he and Bobby rooted out any evidence of Hugh’s presence, particularly garments that couldn’t be passed off as either Bobby’s or Ethan’s.

Hugh cautiously pulled himself into a sitting position. His head had a thing or two to say about it, but nothing that couldn’t be silenced by a cup of tea and his first cigarette of the day.

A glance under the covers confirmed that he was decent to walk in front of Stephen so he made the trip to the loo that just wouldn’t wait and returned feeling relieved and refreshed, if not shaven. Two and a half years and he still hated that part of the endeavor, no matter how many women, or men for that matter, babbled about House’s sexy, scruffy look.

Stephen hadn’t spoken since his initial response to Hugh’s query about the limo. Perhaps he was waiting for Hugh’s full engagement before starting the day’s monologue on the concert or the party or the morning news. Maybe this was the beginning of a depressed phase. Despite his own experience with depression, he’d never quite understood what triggered Stephen’s moods. He’d seemed perfectly fine last night, doing his endearingly ludicrous “rock and roll” dance, but Hugh knew how quickly things could change. A phone call from Daniel, a bad dream, something on the internet…

One of Stephen’s many laptops had taken up residence on the kitchen table. Hugh had to go in to start water for tea and, not surprisingly, the computer was already on. There was an open web page on the screen with a picture of a woman seen from the side wearing a blue dress with white polka dots. Why did that look so familiar? He scrolled through a page of ridiculously small font, wishing he’d remembered to put his glasses on, before absorbing the fact that he was reading the blog of Pete Townsend’s girlfriend which included a nugget about the previous night’s show:

_After the show, I met Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie who were being very funny about giving people blowjobs to get on Pete’s bus to say hi._

All he’d done was a bad impression of a New York hooker saying “Who does a broad have to blow to get on this thing?” just before Pete and Roger showed up to welcome them aboard.

Hugh was torn between embarrassment that this little tidbit was now preserved for all time and chagrin that he and Stephen had only earned a one-line mention while a visit from David Caruso the night before had garnered a photograph and several paragraphs of gushing. Apparently Rachel was avid to get a guest spot playing a corpse.

Still, it didn’t make sense for Stephen to use the event as an excuse for another round of bad manners, considering that he was the one who’d followed Hugh’s joke by pretending to be a pimp, talking up the value of the “goods.”

Stephen was making the bed, looking alarmingly Jeeves-like, even in his casual clothes.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“We’ve already established that you don’t give a damn about me, but do you really think Jo’s going to put up with this?”

Moods were one thing, but Stephen appeared to have gone completely round the bend.

“This is nothing. Typically British poof stuff. Does anyone even read that thing…besides you, I mean?”

“I don’t mean that.” Stephen fluffed up pillows with a great show of energy before turning around to face Hugh. “I mean what happened last night.”

Hugh’s morning was taking a sharp turn for the worse, punctuated by the shrill whistling coming from the kitchen, which exacerbated his hangover.

“Tea time,” he announced, wondering why all their conversations ended up sounding like a comedy sketch or a soap opera.

He went to the kitchen to make the tea, concentrating on what he might have done last night to raise Stephen’s ire so harshly after nearly two months of relative peace in Fry-land. Things were still a bit hazy, but the smell of Earl Grey helped bring the picture into focus.

They’d come back to the condo drunk, tired and happy. Hugh smiled until he realized they’d also fallen into bed, like many drunk, tired and happy times before. If something had happened, he really couldn’t blame Stephen. He’d feel guilty about Bobby, of course, but he was already living in a state of nearly perpetual guilt, so how was cheating on a new lover with an old lover any worse than cheating on his wife?

But if they’d had sex, why was Stephen in such a bitter mood, and why had he woken up with his boxers still on? There was no clue in Stephen’s expression as Hugh poured the tea. Or maybe he’d rejected Stephen, but then why bring up his sins against Jo?

Where was one of the writers, Doris perhaps, to make him look as brilliant as House, or at least give him some funny lines as he tried to figure out what was going on in his own life?

Perhaps the self-deprecating approach was worth a shot.

“Obviously I should never try to out-drink a rock star fifteen years my senior.”

“If you’re going to try and blame this on drink, I suggest you consider taking the pledge indefinitely.”

Hugh sipped his tea, slowly.

“Stephen, I give up. What have I done now? If I pushed you away, I’m sorry, but…well, we’ve been over this.”

“On the contrary, you were exceedingly affectionate. Rather like the old days.”  
  
Hugh sighed, resigning himself to the idea that he had done the deed. Oh well, nothing to be done about it now.

“And?”

“There are many names I will answer to when a man has his hands on my arse and his tongue in close proximity to my ear. ’Bobby’ is not one of them.”

_Bloody hell._

“And I don’t think Jo would much appreciate it either.”

_Bloody fucking hell._

“Damn,” he muttered, trying not to spill his tea.

Just when things had been going so well.

*****  
“Jo invited me over.”

“Joe who?” Robert muttered, squinting at the New York Times through his sunglasses.

Gaby had so many friends and acquaintances all over the world that it was impossible to keep track, especially when he’d just taken his first sip of an Arnold Palmer and neither the caffeine nor the sugar had kicked in yet. They were at Figtree’s Café, waiting for their breakfast orders to arrive.

“Jo Laurie. She must have called when I was on the plane. She left a message saying I should ‘come round for scones’ next time I’m in London.”

That woke up Bobby up nearly instantly without benefit of stimulants, especially because Gaby’s imitation of Jo’s accent was spot on, and therefore somewhat similar to Hugh’s.

Interest in the headlines evaporated. He searched his fiancée’s face for a hint that he was totally screwed, his big secret about to become tabloid fodder when Gaby announced to the press that she was breaking up the relationship and why.

_Right. You’re that big a star. And she’d actually do that._

The voice of caustic reason was drowned out by fear for himself and the other people involved, specifically one person and his loved ones.

“She and Daniel decided I need to be inducted into their secret society. I think it’s sweet. I’ll have to take her up on it.”

“Yeah. Definitely. Assuming the show stays on the air long enough.”

“What are you talking about? Aren’t you number one?”

“No, American Idol is number one,” he reminded her, somewhat ashamed of knowing that fact.

“Big deal. You’re number one for real shows, right?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, grudgingly, remembering how Hugh shared his gloomy view of the business and the low probability of continued success. Gaby could verge on being a Pollyanna.

The food arrived, allowing him to deal with the tofu scramble instead of his guilt for comparing Gaby to Hugh in any way, much less one that put Gaby in a bad light.

How could such a brilliant woman possibly be as clueless as he desperately needed her to be? On the other hand, she had already made a decision that he thought was hopelessly naïve, not to mention insane, and there was nothing he could do about it. Gaby had purloined the sports section and was picking at her veggie omelet.

“Not great?”

She shrugged. By mutual decision, they abandoned the so-called food and got smoothies to drink while walking along the beach. Gaby started talking about some lectures she was already planning for the University of Tel Aviv. The topic of scones with Jo Laurie and Daniel Cohen was completely dropped, leaving Bobby to wonder if there’d been any reason for her to bring it up in the first place besides giving him a heart attack.

Hugh had once told him that the price of infidelity is constant paranoia. He ran through every moment since Gaby had arrived the day before, trying to remember if he’d said or done anything that might lead her to suspect he was having an affair with Hugh. Not just a dirty little physical fling, but something that had turned almost alarmingly serious with declarations of love, walks along this same beach, and fear of exposure at the hands of Hugh’s best friend.

Stephen had been a factor from the beginning, even before Bobby knew about the emotionally tortured aspects of Hugh’s and Stephen’s relationship. The more he found out, the more he developed his own jealousy of the years they’d spent together as partners, professional and otherwise. It was insane, but the whole relationship fit that category, including a growing conviction that the writers were trying to imply more than just friendship between House and Wilson. The night they broadcast the episode with the autistic child, Uma had called from Connecticut to scream about Wilson’s jealousy when he saw Cameron sitting on the desk, and instead of thinking “leave me alone, you crazy woman” as usual, he’d found himself nodding. It would certainly have pissed him off if he were Wilson.

He should probably stop talking to Uma after every episode. For one thing she screeched into the receiver and for another she was starting to make sense, which was just scary.

He definitely needed to stop mentioning Uma when he was talking to Gaby. They’d never particularly hit it off and Gaby’s response to Ethan and Uma breaking up had been a polite variation of “Good riddance,” and an implication that Uma was talented and beautiful but not all that bright.

Bobby wondered if he should call Hugh and let him know about Jo’s invitation. Jo and Daniel and Gaby couldn’t possibly be a good thing. Because even if Jo didn’t know what was going on, was it possible that Stephen’s partner had no inkling?

“Would Stephen be there?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“What?”

Gaby had moved on from Tel Aviv back to the various appointments she had lined up with what Bobby mentally lumped together as “horse people” that afternoon.

“The tea and crumpets.”

“Oh, that. No, I don’t think so. Jo acted like it was just “the girls,” very ha ha. But I’ve been getting emails from Stephen.”

Bobby tried to wrap his head around that piece of information as he chucked the remains of the smoothie into a garbage can. He also tried to cover up the loud chorus of _shit, shit, shit_ that was singing three-part harmony in his brain.

“He’s got about a zillion computers. Buys them five at a time or something. Did you see that article in the New Yorker?” he asked cautiously.

Gaby nodded.

“Poor thing. He’s really the sweetest man. I seem to have been added to his list of internet friends, so I’m always getting little articles and tidbits. I think he’s here right now working on some show, so he must be staying with Hugh.”

Bobby knew very well that Stephen was in town, working on an episode of Bones. He was, in fact, staying at Hugh’s apartment, which had exactly one bed, which Bobby had been trying very hard not to think about.

“Maybe we can all have dinner together,” she added.

_Oh, yeah. That’s a good idea._

“Hugh sees enough of me when we’re working.”

“Oh come on. I thought you guys were such great friends. Besides, I’ve never gotten to spend any time with him. Hugh and Stephen together? That’s got to be amazing. At least give him a call. Please?”

Bobby tried to think of a plausible excuse. There was none.

“Sure.”

He knew that Hugh and Stephen had been on the outs, mostly because of him, and that they’d recently made up, pretty much because he couldn’t keep himself from showing Hugh an article in the New Yorker. Now he could only hope that Hugh would veto anything as ridiculous as this dinner idea.  
*****

August had been an exceedingly chilly month between Hugh and Stephen, as in no contact whatsoever. Not even one of those innocuously amusing emails that regularly went out to Stephen’s vast circle of friends.

Hugh knew he’d been thoughtless of Stephen’s feelings, but he wasn’t going to apologize for his own. There was only so much guilt a man could live with and Hugh felt he’d reached his limit. He hated when things were like this between them, but it couldn’t be helped and frankly, he had other things to worry about.

The manuscript of the new book had come back from copy editing festooned with post-it notes in an array of colors. There were changes, deletions, suggestions and demands, each one requiring a response, leading to a flurry of transatlantic calls and emails as he was forced to defend each comma and conjunction.

Then there was the movie. Did he really want to spend another summer in LA, in a third-billed part, with Keanu Reeves of all people? There was the famous, never-ending house hunt, seemingly destined to go the same way as Malkovich’s intention of producing The Gun Seller, but the illusion had to persist. He didn’t want to admit to himself or Jo that they were really destined to live this way as long as the series lasted, even though his natural pessimism insisted that it couldn’t possibly be more than another year.

Hugh felt he could be forgiven if it wasn’t his first priority to hop on a plane to London and grovel so Stephen wouldn’t be cross with him.

The cold spell had lasted until a day in September when Bobby showed up at his trailer with a magazine in his hand, which turned out to be the previous week’s New Yorker. Bobby loved the magazine and often showed Hugh articles, but he didn’t usually drop by the trailer to do so.

“Have you seen this?”

Perhaps their luck had finally given out and there’d been something written about them being more than friends, but The New Yorker hardly seemed the place.

Hugh took the magazine. It was folded back to an article entitled “Petrified” by John Lahr. The subtitle said “The horrors of stage fright.”

He still didn’t understand Bobby’s immediate interest until he read the first line, _In February, 1995, the thirty-seven-year-old British actor and comedian Stephen Fry was starring with another popular British comic, Rik Mayall, in the West End production of Simon Gray’s “Cell Mates.”_ , and felt his stomach lurch.

Any mention of Cell Mates inevitably led to memories of Stephen’s breakdown, the suicide attempt and subsequent disappearance. Eleven years had gone by and he could feel the fear that Stephen was gone forever as vividly as he had during those horrible two weeks until Stephen turned up in Hamburg. His hands shook, rattling the magazine pages.

“You never told me about this.”

Bobby’s tone implied that he had a right to know. Maybe he did, but that didn’t make Hugh any more inclined to discuss it. He peered at the illustration, a caricature of an actor, possibly Shakespearean, who appeared to be literally “petrified” being carried onto the stage by a burly fellow in brown, still unclear as to why this story was appearing in The New Yorker _now_.

“It’s an article about stage fright.”

Hugh nodded. He’d never considered the incident to be a result of stage fright, although he knew that Stephen, although a natural genius, was not a natural actor, able to overcome the terror of the audience the way other actors, such as Bobby, could.

Before he could read further, a PA arrived to summon Hugh and Bobby to the soundstage that been set up as “Atlantic City hotel room” where they were shooting a scene with John Laroquette, one with pages of fast-paced dialogue, heavy emotional content and the usual surfeit of medical jargon. He didn’t think he could remember any of it, despite having the whole scene memorized before Bobby arrived to play show and tell. This had to be taken care of now.

“I’ll be right there,” he assured Donna, who looked annoyed, and Bobby, whose face still wore the shock of learning just how emotionally fragile Stephen could be.

As soon as they were out of earshot he pulled out his mobile phone to ring up Stephen and apologize for being a stupid git. He did not apologize for screwing Bobby or promise that he would cease to do so.

It became the unspoken topic between them. At least Stephen had stopped issuing threats to expose the affair to Gaby, Jo, The Sun or Rupert Murdoch. Hugh suspected that the new strategy was simply to bide his time until the show ran its course. It was hard to imagine things continuing after that.

On the other hand, he obviously had his current lover firmly embedded in his subconscious, leading to last night’s faux pas. What else could he do but sigh and apologize and get ready to face Jay Leno?

“Stephen, I’m so sorry.”

“Aren’t you always?”  
****

“Are you sure you want to come? You really don’t have to.”

Gaby was looking at her Blackberry, checking the list of horse farms and equestrian patrons they were due to visit, including a workout with Sandstone.

“No. It’s OK. I want to.”

“You know you’ll be bored shitless.”

Bobby had to smile. She was right. A little bit of horses and horse people went a long way, but she’d done her fair share of industry events and red carpets where the press treated her as though she were invisible. Gaby had been there applauding for him since his first walk-on part at Columbia, back when they were the geeky misfits who hung out together, and you had to be pretty geeky to be considered a geek at Columbia.

She’d stood by as a friend while he went through the whole Dead Poets Society insanity and the whatever-it-was with Gwyneth, until he stopped being an idiot and realized he was in love with her. Going down to Orange County for some glad-handing the day before Gaby was competing in the Revo Classic was the least he could do.

Gaby actually enjoyed driving, no doubt a product of her Southern California upbringing. She maneuvered the Ford Mustang as smoothly as she rode the other kind of horse. Her mastery of the wheel provided Bobby with the opportunity to relax and enjoy the scenery, such as it could be seen from the car, but the paranoia kicked back in with Oldies 93.

She hadn’t mentioned anything about this morning. Why should she? There was nothing unusual about a man waking up horny and making love to his fiancée, even if they’d also done it the night before. She had no way of knowing what he’d been dreaming about, or exactly how much sex he’d gotten used to having in that exact bed.

The mention of Jo’s invitation and the whole “let’s have dinner with Hugh and Stephen,” which he _still_ hadn’t followed up on, could all be perfectly innocent. His friendship with Hugh was no secret. Friends. Like him and Ethan, freaky dreams notwithstanding.

There was no reason for her to suppose that a Saturday afternoon devoted to getting rid of evidence had led to a fierce encounter on the stairs when Hugh responded to Bobby’s description of his recurring dream with a show of possessiveness that left Bobby both bruised and breathless.

Maybe Hugh had left marks, besides the usual stubble burn. Gaby had brought him a whole box of spa products, including some Black Sea Black Mud. He’d accepted gratefully, using the typical actor’s complaint about the make-up being rough on his complexion, and threw in something about the salt air and the smog.

Almost as soon as she’d put down her bags and changed out of her travel clothes, they’d been on the road to Thousand Oaks to see her family and tell them the big news. “December 27,” she’d said, as though it were another lecture date or a show-jumping event instead of giving up her US citizenship and moving to Israel.

It wasn’t a surprise. She’d been talking about it on and off since the 2000 elections. She had friends in the small Israeli equestrian community and a standing offer to lecture at the University of Tel Aviv. That didn’t make it any less of a shock to hear an actual date.

Naturally her parents had gone seven brands of ballistic and Bobby had made it clear he supported her decision 100%. That was his job. He’d saved his own concerns for the ride to Orange County.

“Why now?” he’d asked.

“Why not?”

“The elections are this week.”

“Bob, it’s not about politics. It’s where I belong.”

He resisted the impulse to say anything as melodramatic as “I thought you belonged with me,” or even worse, “What about us?” because she would just remind him of how little time they spent in the same city, state or country as it was. Maybe their separate vagabond lives were what had kept them together this long, but some part of Bobby’s mind couldn’t help thinking this might be a ploy to get him to set a date so she could stay home and be a Hollywood wife.

_Are you on drugs?_

He loved her deeply and what had once been gawky and geeky was now sweet and adorable, especially her crooked grin, but she’d always put the riding ahead of everything.

“It’s dangerous,” he insisted, unable to stop himself.

“So’s the 405,” she replied, merging into the fast lane.

Gaby had no way of knowing when they made love that night and again in the morning that some part of him, which he hated and felt deeply ashamed of, didn’t mind the fact that she’d be farther away for longer than usual, leaving him more leeway to be with Hugh.

The guilt sent him to Orange County to smile and shake hands with the people Gaby cultivated for her work on the board of the Southern California Equestrian Society. Schmoozing and fundraising were as much a part of the job as the riding itself. He watched with a certain fascination as she went about the process with dignity and patience. He smiled and nodded and allowed his picture to be taken with various big-money types who were probably voting Republican the next day but all claimed to watch and love the show.

At the Anaco Ranch in Anaheim, she finally got to see Sandstone Laurin for the first time in nearly a month and take him out on the course. Bobby knew they needed some time together, so he sat on the bleachers watching. As far as his uneducated eye could tell, the horse looked fully recovered from its injury.

He owed her so much, including a dinner with Hugh and Stephen if that was what she really wanted. He had to at least try so he could then shake his head sadly and explain the logistical problems and make apologies on Hugh’s behalf. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Hugh’s number. It was a calculated risk if Stephen was nearby, but Hugh could always let it go to voicemail. After two rings, he assumed that was going to happen and prepared to leave his brief message. Instead he heard Hugh’s voice.

“Bobby.”

It still had its familiar effect. _Homina, homina, homina._

“Hey. Hugh. How was the concert? It must have been amazing.”

“I think I’ve almost recovered my hearing.”

Bobby could sense a certain over-precision in Hugh’s speech. He wasn’t alone.

“Gaby’s riding.”

The silence was too charged to last long.

“She wants to have dinner. All four of us.”

“Really? That’s an interesting idea. Let me check with my social secretary.”

Stephen must be nearby. Hovering. He short-circuited a rush of jealousy by reminding himself that he was capable of facing a live audience in a play, something that the oh-so-accomplished Mr. Fry apparently could not.

It was a mean, petty thing to think and he instantly felt guilty about it.

“Dinner for four it is. Tomorrow night, then?”

“I guess. Gaby’s competing tomorrow and we’re going to Lisa’s to watch election returns, but we could do dinner first.”

“Perfect.”

“Are you sure? Is this a good idea?” he asked trying to convey his concern without getting Hugh further in dutch with his best friend.

“I can assure you, we’ll both be on our best behavior. If any riots are started, they will be on your side of the table.”

“You’re doing Leno tonight, right?”

“Indeed. We’re on our way to Burbank right now. In a limo.”

Hugh enunciated the last word emphatically, making Bobby feel he’d been sitting out in the sun too long, both hot and slightly dizzy.

“I’ll be sure to watch.”

“Please don’t.”

“Break a leg.”

“Only if it means I can get out of this. I’ll ring you up tomorrow.”

“Great.”

Poor Hugh. He had to go out there and play the “public consumption” version of himself yet again, which Bobby knew was as much a performance as putting on House’s accent and limp.

“How are you holding up, sweetie?”

Gaby had joined him on the bleachers. She was holding her riding helmet, but had already changed back into her “meeting the money” clothes.

“I’m good. You looked great out there. _He_ looks great.”

“Thanks. I think we’re going to do well tomorrow.”

“And we’re on for dinner tomorrow night.”

“With Hugh and Stephen? That is so awesome. I can hardly wait.”

“Me either,” he said, trying to sell it without going over the top. “Hugh’s doing Leno tonight.”

“I know you don’t want to miss that,” she replied, smiling just knowingly enough to make him start worrying all over again.  
*****

The green room at the Tonight Show studio was not green, but Hugh had compensated by turning a bit chartreuse around the gills.

Stephen watched, trying not to show his amusement at Hugh’s distress, especially since he knew it was the equivalent of a tantrum thrown by a child who didn’t want to do his homework.

“Are you sure about the shirt?”

“The shirt is perfection itself.”

The shirt was, in fact, Stephen’s. Wearing it on national television was the pound of flesh he had demanded to let Hugh off the hook for the previous night’s faux pas. It was the palest pink and the television lights would blanch it to almost white, but he would know that under his grey jacket, Hugh was wearing a shirt monogrammed SF. He owed Stephen that much.

Perhaps he should have let things continue even after he heard the other man’s name. Hugh might have been miffed in the morning, but he’d have no one to blame but himself and Jack Daniels. It wouldn’t have been an unpleasant experience. Stephen knew what Hugh liked and he was more than willing to match his own prowess against this Bobby-come-lately. He berated himself for his stupid pride. At least he could console himself that he’d done the “right” thing, even if it was for the wrong reason.

Suffice to say, Hugh looked a treat in the open-collared shirt. His morning hoarseness had given way to tea and a few lozenges. He’d already been through the pre-interview and there was no reason for him to be acting the diva, pacing the green room, which they were currently sharing with America Ferrara, her publicist and her publicist’s assistant. The room was considerably larger than anything afforded to guests on a UK chat-show, although the alarmingly named Cheetah Girls were being held elsewhere, hopefully in a secure cage.

Hugh and Ms. Ferrara had exchanged air kisses and show-business pleasantries before she retreated to one side of the room with her entourage while Hugh commenced pacing and worrying about the shirt. It was a relief when Hugh was called into the studio leaving Stephen to watch the ordeal on one of the monitors.

_“You all know my first guest, an Emmy-nominated actor who plays the brilliant, abrasive Dr. House on the hugely popular series House. The show is aired on Tuesday nights on Fox. Also a fellow motorcyclist. Hugh Laurie, ladies and gentlemen!”_

Stephen could look at Hugh indefinitely. Listening to an inane rehash of bits that Hugh had been dispensing to interviewers for years was another matter. It was a necessity of the business, but having spent the better part of six months exposing his demons to the camera for the documentary, it galled him more than a little to watch Hugh glide by on the same old glib façade.

_“Emma Thompson was on the show last week. She said she basically discovered you.”_

_“Ah yes, well, I suppose you could say that.”_

_“And you…you two used to go out.”_

He had to resist the impulse to call Emma and remind her she no longer had to parade herself as proof of Hugh’s heterosexuality. Perhaps he would enlist her support by outlining the current situation in the hopes that she would get on the phone and give Hugh what for, along with a demand that he break up with the interloper and recommence shagging Stephen immediately. It was, he hated to admit, more likely that she would scold Stephen for behaving like a lovesick schoolgirl and tell him to go home to the man who adored him, and she’d be right.

Stephen hated feeling this way, hated watching House with that sick feeling that came up whenever House and Wilson exchanged one of those looks. Hated himself for needing to take to bed for a good wank while envisioning Hugh, back in the Jeeves days, well dressed and smooth-faced in a dressing room on his knees. Hated the amount of pain he must be causing Daniel, who had to have some idea what was going on.

There were no illusions that Hugh would leave Jo and show up on his doorstep in West Bilney for a lifetime of fun and fellatio. Stephen loved Daniel and didn’t want to cheat, or want to want to cheat, but the knowledge that Hugh was having a full-blown affair drove him to a completely irrational desire to reclaim his rightful place in Hugh’s life.

_”I have a wife and teenagers back in London. I’ll be seeing them in a few weeks for Thanksgiving. Not that we celebrate Thanksgiving, of course.”_

He knew he should take responsibility for his own feelings, but he wasn’t the one playing the good husband on the telly knowing full well what he was getting up to practically every spare moment. On the other hand it was impossible to stay angry at Hugh, especially when he was wearing Stephen’s shirt.

Stephen’s pique, inevitably, focused itself on Mr. Leonard. _Bobby_ , he thought with extreme distaste. By the time Hugh was joking about giving Leno a liver transplant, Stephen had worked himself into a state of fury toward Hugh’s current paramour, with whom he’d already agreed to break bread the following evening. Hugh had reported that Ms. Salick thought it would be “fun” for all four of them to dine out.

Stephen hardly noticed Leno wrapping up the interview and the music playing Hugh off the set, so intent was he on the prospect of facing his rival head on and wondering exactly how he could make the evening work to his own advantage. He had no desire to hurt Gabriella but he was tired of suffering in solitude.

America Ferrara left for her turn on the couch as Hugh returned to the room, looking rather pale and clammy.

“Remind me to have my agent flogged if he suggests doing this again. Was I the world’s biggest prat out there?”

“That would be your gracious host, but honestly I’m surprised you’ve never heard from the Presbyterian Anti-defamation League. You can’t blame it all on them, you know.”

“So now I’m the Mel Gibson of anti-Presbyterianism?”

“Certainly. And I’m not sure you really want to alert the Los Angeles Police Department of your propensity to nod off on the road.”

“Yes. I’m a Rodney King just waiting to happen. Especially if they’ve been watching the show.”

“Ah, the little stunt with the thermometer.”

Hugh nodded, grinning at his character’s cheeky behavior. Stephen had detected a certain amount of animosity toward the actor playing Detective Tritter, who seemed to be doing a grand job of making himself completely loathsome.

“Shall we grab a bit of supper?” Hugh inquired.

“And miss the Cheetah Girls? I should say not,” he announced in a voice of high outrage, causing Hugh to crack up with laughter. At least he could still do that. “Actually, I was thinking of making it an early evening.”

Hugh managed to stop chortling long enough to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“I hate the idea of the room at the Chateau going to waste. And some of us actually have to work in the morning.”

Stephen tried and failed not to be hurt by Hugh’s visible relief that he was moving out.

“Are you all right with this dinner thing? We can claim prior commitments, late filming, visit to a friend in rehab.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. In fact, I’ll take care of the arrangements,” he said in his most soothing tones, which he hoped would throw Hugh completely off the scent.

By the time they were in the town car, Stephen had sent a few text messages inquiring about potential dining spots and received a very interesting reply. He still wasn’t sure _what_ he was going to do, but he’d discovered the perfect place for it.

@@@@@@@@  
_Mad about the boy,_  
I know it's stupid  
To be mad about the boy.  
I'm so ashamed of it  
But must admit  
The sleepless nights  
I've had about the boy.

Fuck you, Noel Coward. 

 

And a hardy fuckety fuck fuck to Stephen as well.

 

Hugh had tried to be honest with Stephen throughout the whole affair, which was difficult when it had taken a while for Hugh himself to realize how serious things had become. In return he’d gotten hostility, threats, and worst of all the full brunt of Stephen’s disapproval, a mighty thing in and of itself, when he needed Stephen to be there for him as a friend, not a spurned lover.

 

Bobby had the strange arrangement of his best friend and his best friend’s ex-wife, but at least he had someone to talk to. Hugh felt like there was no one he could confide in who wasn’t already involved in the situation. Emma? She’d probably read him the riot act on both Jo’s and Stephen’s behalf. 

 

There’d been a moment the night before, in the middle of his patented spiel about how much more genteel it was working on British television -- “three hours and a break for tea” -- when he’d been terrified he might just turn to Leno and say, “You know, Jay, what I’d really like to talk about is the fact that I’ve fallen in love with Robert Sean Leonard. When I’m not having sex with him, I’m watching his movies and thinking about fucking him.”

 

Instead he got a round of applause for mentioning Ricky Gervais and the interview continued without damage to his marriage or career. 

 

The luxury of waking up alone in his condo had lasted only as long as he remembered that he didn’t want to be alone. Things got worse when he checked a text message from Stephen regarding the reservations for dinner that night. Very funny, Stephen. Very, very funny.

 

Hugh puttered around the apartment, not dealing with editing notes, barely looking at the script for next week. He’d already called home where Jo was trying to sort out plans for the holidays and Charlie had taken an interest in the old man’s career, lobbying heavily for him to take the part in the movie because of the Keanu factor. 

 

His big mistake was hitting shuffle on his iPod. There was Marianne Faithful growling her way through a song that reminded him of just what a pickle he’d actually gotten himself into.

 

_On the silver screen_  
He melts my foolish heart  
In every single scene.  
Although I'm quite aware  
That here and there  
Are traces of that cad about the boy. 

 

A ride on the bike might free his mind from the voice of Stephen telling him to give up something that was actually making him happy when it wasn’t making him miserable. 

 

He’d planned to go north on 101 and feel the wind in his face for as long as possible before getting back to face the famous dinner date, complete with Stephen’s passive-aggressive manipulations. Apparently, the Triumph had other ideas. Maybe it had gotten so used to going from La Cienega to I-10 that before he knew it, he’d already taken exit 1-A and there was no turning back. He was on his way to Venice Beach. 

 

_Will it ever cloy_  
This odd diversity of misery and joy  
I'm feeling quite insane  
And young again  
And all because  
I'm mad about the boy. 

 

Noel certainly had that bit right. Quite insane. Standing across the street from the cul-de-sac that led to Bobby’s beach house. Smoking. Waiting. Watching. Knowing that Bobby was in there with Gaby.

 

What did he expect? That Bobby would dump his fiancée just to satisfy Hugh’s ego? He didn’t know what was worse. Jealousy of Gaby or the bizarre moment of possessive fury that had flared up when Bobby mentioned his recurring dream -- not even a fantasy, just a dream -- of his friends Ethan and Keanu in a limousine. 

 

He’d immediately demanded to know which one Bobby fancied and practically forced himself on the poor boy, although the _boy_ hadn’t needed much forcing. 

 

Fuck. He was getting aroused just remembering. No wonder he’d been saying Bobby’s name while groping Stephen. What if he did slip when he was back in London with Jo? Stephen was right. She’d never forgive him. Maybe the answer was to spend as little time at home as possible. Make his agent and Charlie happy at the same time. At least somebody would be. 

 

A car came up the cul-de-sac and out toward Pacific. Hugh caught a glimpse and knew it was Gabriella, off to her event, alone. 

 

He put his helmet back on for the brief ride to the house, hoping no one had been interested enough to recognize him and wonder why the star of a top-rated television program was lurking about on a street in Venice, California. Visiting his co-star was one thing -- they had some scenes in the next script that could stand some going over -- but the lurking thing was a bit dodgy. 

 

Hugh parked the bike and rang the bell. For a few seconds, he worried that Bobby wasn’t home, that he was making a fool out of himself, turning into a…

 

Then the door opened and Bobby stood in the doorway looking uncomfortable, possibly because he was wearing a suit. Should he bother making some kind of excuse? _I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought we might run lines for a while._ Who was he kidding? 

 

“Gaby just left.” Hugh nodded as though this were news to him. “I’m meeting her there. I’ve never understood why I have get into a suit and tie when it’s all horses and dirt, but…”

 

So that Hugh would have the opportunity to pull Bobby toward him by the tie, something he never got to do when they were on set and Wilson’s ties were an almost irresistible target. 

 

Bobby didn’t wear his suits as naturally as the character did, but that made him even more desirable. Hugh got a brief glimpse of rising eyebrows and Bobby grabbing for his glasses. He managed to maneuver them both inside the door before their lips were touching and his fingers were winding through Bobby’s faintly damp hair. 

 

Had it only been three days? It felt more like three months, and it wasn’t just him. Bobby kissed back fiercely. Hugh knew they absolutely shouldn’t be doing this _now_ , but stopping was impossible and it would have taken brute force to detach Bobby’s grip on his shoulders. 

 

The bedroom was upstairs and Hugh’s jacket was gone before they even started up. Bobby’s suit jacket hit the floor shortly thereafter. He tried to get the buttons of Bobby’s shirt undone as quickly as possible, thinking this would be a desperate quickie, something to take the edge off Bobby’s nerves and relieve his own frustration.

 

So why was he naked and lying on his back while Bobby put him through slow, shuddering torture? Bobby was nipping at his neck, flicking his tongue against the hollow of Hugh’s throat and moving downwards as though they had hours. Hugh didn’t know how  
much build-up he could stand but he decided to close his eyes and find out. 

Wet heat engulfed one nipple and fingernails grazed the other. Bobby hadn’t managed to get all his own clothes off before they reached the bed and Hugh felt the roughness of trousers against his legs, and smiled at the thought that the socks were probably on as well. The smile gave way to a groan as Bobby’s soft lips moved down his chest and stomach, fingers grasping his hips, and his hot breath was so, so close. 

 

If there had been any rational thoughts he wished to express about the situation, they were long gone and all he could think was _NOW_ but instead of the expected mouth on his cock, he felt the less-familiar sensation of his balls being licked and nuzzled and gently sucked. His legs spread and then -- _Oh dear god!_ \-- the tongue moving up and back, probing, lapping right against his arsehole, and that was almost too much. He started panting, legs shaking, toes curled with delight. He’d never asked Bobby to do this, certainly never expected…even Stephen wasn’t that keen. He briefly wondered what had inspired this act of …love? Was it a first or part of a last? The thought vanished as Bobby assumed his more usual position, propped on one elbow, gripping Hugh’s shaft while letting his lips and tongue slide over the head . 

 

Hugh started thrusting into Bobby’s mouth and hand, finding a rhythm that Bobby picked up, building in speed and intensity, sucking, stroking, moaning until Hugh felt the release building and his whole body quivered as his head fell back and the world exploded and he knew that Bobby’s mouth was still on him until there was nothing left to give. 

 

He was vaguely aware of Bobby stripping off the rest of his clothes, including the incriminating socks. 

 

“Hugh, please!”

 

It was a toss-up as to what was sexier, Bobby’s voice or the sight of his body, now stark naked, lying face down, legs spread, repeating his plea. 

 

“Please… Hugh… I need…”

 

Did the younger man expect him to produce an erection as though he were the star of some pornographic epic?

 

“Ummm, Bobby…”

 

“Hands,” he grunted.

 

Of course. Far more sensible, given that there probably weren’t any condoms around the place following the great clean-up caper. Both the Trojans and the KY were currently residing in the boot of his car. 

 

He found an unfamiliar bottle on the bedside table with the name of a famous spa on the label. There was a whiff of mint and lavender as he squeezed a generous dollop onto one palm and started spreading it onto both hands. He was about to get Bobby off using his girlfriend’s lotion. That shouldn’t be a turn-on, but it was. Even hotter was the gasp that Bobby could barely muffle against a pillow when Hugh ran two fingers along his crack before unceremoniously pushing both in at the same time. 

 

“Oh god! Hugh!”

 

Bobby was on his knees, pushing back, demanding more. 

 

Hugh had a brief flash of the first time he’d penetrated Bobby, using a single tentative finger, ridiculously worried about hurting him. Now he was clamoring for more and Hugh was happy to oblige. Three fingers moved in and out, making Bobby groan louder with each thrust, the heat around his fingers giving Hugh further fantasies of someday feeling the actual flesh against his cock. 

 

Too damn tempting, he thought, glad he was unable to act on it at that moment. 

 

“Fuck. Fuck. Come on, Hugh. More…please.”

 

Bobby hardly ever cursed out of the bedroom. Hugh loved knowing he could do this to him, the same way he loved knowing he was the only man that Bobby had been with and more selfishly wanted to keep it that way. Maybe that was why he responded with a sharp smack against Bobby’s arse before giving in with in the addition of his little finger.

 

Rhythm. Groaning. Heat. Lavender. Love. He loved Bobby. He loved fucking him. 

 

Hugh reached between Bobby’s legs, squeezing his balls in time with the thrusts against his prostate, and then he lost track of everything except the heat and Bobby’s almost obscene moaning, which gave way to a protracted scream as he drove his fingers in deep and squeezed hard and felt Bobby’s orgasm against both hands. 

 

How could anyone, Jo or Stephen or anyone else, ask him to give this up?

 

 _Oh really? Prepared to go public are you?_

 

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

 

 _Mad about the boy…_

 

You too.

 

All he wanted was to lie next to his lover, uninterrupted by jealous friends or dead writers or his own guilt. Was that too much to ask?

 

Didn’t Bobby have to be somewhere, rather than running his fingers through Hugh’s hair? Bobby’s hands felt good anywhere on his body, but Hugh would just as soon not have too much investigation up there. He hadn’t particularly appreciated that line about “What’s left of it,” in the previous season. 

 

“I should get going.”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“It’s in Simi Valley. I’ll tell her I got lost or there was traffic or something. Want to go see some horse jumping?”

 

“Would that be wise?” Hugh answered, as though actually considering showing up with Bobby at his fiancée’s equestrian event was an actual possibility.

 

“You go to NASCAR races.”

 

“If you can promise a flaming crash, I’m right there.”

 

“So where are we going to dinner? I think Gaby’s more excited about this than about the contest.”

 

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

 

“Hugh? Is something wrong?” Bobby rose and began the process of reconstructing his apparel starting with the last things he’d taken off. 

 

“The Ivy,” he replied, trying to keep all emotion out of his voice. 

 

“What?” Bobby called from just outside the bedroom door where one of his shoes had landed. 

 

“The Ivy. There’s one in London, but it’s no relation.”

 

“He got reservations at the Ivy on 24 hours notice? What is he, Harvey Weinstein’s bowling partner?” Bobby actually sounded impressed.

 

“He has his ways.”

 

Ways of pissing Hugh off. Ways of trying to make him feel guilty by reminding him of some very good times between them. 

 

Hugh got out of bed to follow the clothing hunt as it moved through the hall and down the stairs. He reminded Bobby that his glasses were in the pocket of his jacket before that could become a cause for concern. No sooner were they both dressed, Bobby looking only slightly more disheveled than he had when Hugh arrived, than Hugh felt an impulse to grab him and start the whole process over again.

 

This time he let Bobby go with the slightest brush of lips before watching him drive off. They’d all meet later at the infernally named Ivy. Reservations were for seven and there was no way out.

*****

 

Dinner out was nothing like what Gaby had expected, starting with the paparazzi outside and the number of movie stars she’d already recognized walking in. Will Smith. Vince Vaughn. Jennifer Aniston. They had a table near the fireplace in what seemed to be the main dining room. 

 

Nathan Lane had stopped by to greet Bob and both Hugh and Stephen were waved at and air-kissed by people she didn’t recognize, all before they’d even had a chance to order drinks. 

 

Bob always made it a point of honor to avoid this kind of thing. He’d go to Zabar’s but not Elaine’s and given what she’d heard about Hugh’s shyness, she had assumed they’d be dining in a more out-of-the-way location, certainly not a famous see-and-be-seen spot in the heart of LA. 

 

She loved Bob’s unpretentiousness, but also thought his whole “I’m an actor, not a star” routine was just a little disingenuous. Nobody worked at their craft as hard as Bob had in order _not_ to be seen. 

 

Something was bothering him, she could tell. He’d been stressed out when he met her at the Gateway Equestrian Center, just in time to see the award presentation but late for the actual competition. He was full of apologies and tales of traffic, but she suspected he had just gotten lost. 

 

It honestly didn’t matter. She appreciated the effort and the suit and especially the night out with Hugh and Stephen. It was all so lovely that the entrées had arrived before she really noticed the tension at the table. 

 

Instead of digging in and enjoying his prime rib, Bob had decided to launch into a rant about how he was going to ask his agent to negotiate for less onscreen time so that he’d be able to go back to New York. 

 

“I need to do a play, a workshop, a reading…something besides standing around with my hands in my pockets waiting to say _paraneoplastic syndrome_.

 

She’d already heard some of this. Ethan had called to bitch about Stoppard and Billy Crudup and god knows what else and that had set Bob off. She shook her head and caught Stephen’s eye. He twinkled back as if to say “what can you do.” He must have known what was coming, because of course Hugh now looked a bit wounded and Bob realized that he’d been denigrating their show and Hugh by association. 

 

All right, maybe it wasn’t Shakespeare or O’Neill, but from what she’d seen it was much better than most of what was on television. As for the whole “getting back to New York,” she’d heard that before too and knew the pattern. After spending a week with dogs and a few hours rooting around his favorite book stores in the Village, he’d start getting a hankering for Los Angeles again. 

 

She knew he loved working with Hugh, even if he hadn’t been very happy with Wilson’s actions of late. After all, he’d played some real bastards and Wilson was a sympathetic character, if somewhat misguided. Before she could point that out, Hugh chimed in with his own complaints about the current plotline, David Shore, the amount of time he was spending away from his children, an odd jibe about “your hero,” whatever that meant, and finished with something between a plea and threat that Bob not leave him alone with “Katie and the kids.” It struck her as something House might say, but sounded strange and almost vicious in Hugh’s British accent. 

 

The crab cakes were starting to stick in her throat. Maybe she’d offended Hugh in some way. He’d never been anything but gracious and polite when she was on Bob’s arm at industry functions, although maybe his friendship with Bob didn’t actually extend to her. But then why had Jo wanted her to come over? 

 

She turned to Stephen again, looking for answers or at least consolation. He’d been incredibly sweet and attentive all evening -- more than Bob, she hated to admit. He combined a shrug with a sigh and congratulated her on her showing in the competition. 

 

“That is a result,” he said, smiling.

 

“Yes,” she agreed, relaxing in the glow of his charm. 

 

“And where will you be lecturing next? Will the UK be graced with your presence again?”

 

She could have kissed Stephen Fry just then, not that he’d be interested. Instead she decided to share her good news. 

 

“I don’t know if I’ll be back in England right away. First I’m taking Sandstone back to Germany and then…well, I’m making aliyah.”

 

Stephen blinked once.

 

“Emigrating to Israel,” she explained.

 

“Oh. Well then I suppose Mazel Tov is in order.” 

 

“Yes,” she nodded, clinking wine glasses with Stephen and then Hugh and finally Bob, with an emphatic, “l’chaim.” As she was drinking, she caught Hugh and Bob staring at each other again. 

 

Could they have had some sort of argument? Was Bob’s ego making a rare appearance and bristling at his supporting role? She wished he’d managed to keep a lid on it at least until she left again. 

 

Hugh stood and excused himself in the general direction of the rest rooms. The atmosphere grew even more uncomfortable. Whatever was going on with Bob and Hugh clearly affected Bob and Stephen as well. That made sense. Hugh and Stephen went back a long way. One heard rumors that they were more than friends, but she discounted that kind of gossip. According to Bob, Hugh was completely devoted to his wife, and anyway Gaby knew a thing or two about malicious talk, being a sportswoman and therefore immediately suspect in some quarters.

 

“Well, Robert, that was quite a production you fellows did at the Old Vic last summer.”

 

Bob looked as though he had to translate from Urdu before thanking him. Gaby started to think she was going to be sick, a feeling that increased to certainty when she heard a familiar booming voice.

 

“Bobby!”

 

It was Uma, wearing something long and flowing that accentuated her height and chattering a mile a minute to Bob as if there were no one else at the table. 

 

“Oh my god! What are you doing here? I’ve never seen you here. I thought I saw Hugh outside smoking, but then I thought it couldn’t possibly be him, but here you are and….” Bob, being polite, was on his feet, and Uma, being Uma, was all over him, hugging and kissing. 

 

Her yammering stopped short as she absorbed the fact that he was not alone. 

 

“Oh. You’re all here?”

 

Bob nodded hurriedly and presented Uma to Stephen.

 

“Charmed, Ms. Thurman.” 

 

Stephen rose to kiss her hand, and Gaby tried very, very hard not to wish Ms. Thurman out of her sight. Instead Uma stood there, staring as though the sight of the three of them in one place didn’t compute in her vapid mind. 

 

These people were all supposed to be actors? They reminded her of third-graders attempting to keep a secret. 

 

Just when Gaby thought she was going to have to snap her fingers in Uma’s face, she appeared to come out of her trance, focusing her attention again on Bob, addressing him in an over-familiar way that set Gaby’s teeth on edge.

 

“Bobby, can I borrow you for a second? Quentin’s here and he’s dying to meet you. He’s a big fan.”

 

Bob’s mouth opened and he shook his head as though terrified. He couldn’t be that scared to meet Quentin Tarantino. 

 

“No, Uma,” he scolded. “I’m at dinner. It would be rude.”

 

“Oh come on. Gabs, you don’t mind, do you?”

 

“Go,” Gaby urged. _I think we can manage for a few moments without you._

 

She was just as happy to see him go, even with that annoying arm draped over his shoulder. 

 

She immediately turned to Stephen, who looked mortified by the whole display.

 

“Will you please, for god’s sake, tell me what’s going on?”

 

Stephen’s expression betrayed his reluctance, which meant she was right. There was something to know.

 

“Look. Bob talks to Hugh. Hugh talks to you. No one tells me anything. It’s not fair.”

 

“No. It certainly isn’t.”

 

“Did they have a fight?”

 

“In a manner of speaking.”

 

“About what? The show? Bob’s always saying he loves working with Hugh. He doesn’t want more scenes, but…”

 

“I’m afraid the matter isn’t at all professional.”

 

“Then what?” she demanded. 

 

He sighed mournfully.

 

“I’m sure I’d have done the same thing, really. Hugh…he’s such a family man. He’s taken a rather dim view of your Robert’s behavior and told him so. I understand the whole thing turned rather ugly.”

 

Gaby didn’t know if she was going to cry or vomit but she was certainly going to curse.

 

“What fucking behavior? What the hell has he done? Is it drugs or something? I know he sometimes smokes pot with Ethan, but that’s not really a big deal.”

 

Stephen’s blue-gray eyes were full of pain and sympathy.

 

“It’s really not my place and of course it’s all hearsay…rumors, but Hugh seems quite disturbed. Of course he’ll be furious if he finds out I’ve told you…”

 

“Please!”

 

He reached over to take her hand, trying to comfort her as his words shattered her world.

 

“My dear, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you…”  
*****

 

“He’s a big fan,” Uma had said, dragging him away from the table at the worst possible moment to meet her friend/former boyfriend/Svengali, Quentin Tarantino. In this case “fan” did not mean, “Wow, I saw you in Long Day’s Journey and you blew me away,” or “I love you on House, even though you have almost nothing to do but be a whipping boy,” or even “Oh my God, Dead’s Poets Society changed my life.” In this case, it meant, “Oh wow, man, My Best Friend Is a Vampire! I love that movie. That and Lost Boys, best teen vampire movies ever.” 

 

He tried not to feel disappointed. It was still Quentin Tarentino, talking to him, knowing at least something about his career. 

 

Tarantino’s language was just as salty as his onscreen persona’s with most of the _motherfuckers_ and _cocksuckers_ and _motherfucking cocksuckers_ reserved for the “suits” at Dimension who were pressuring him and Robert Rodriguez to take out all the “good stuff” in the final cut of Grindhouse. But as soon as they were done with that “fucking bullshit,” Quentin wanted to sit down and talk to him about something. In fact, according to Uma, they were going to watch the show at her place  
tonight. 

Sure. OK. Whatever. He didn’t want to let himself get too carried away. There’d been plenty of disappointments for parts he didn’t get on the stage and screen. He’d call Scott in the morning and see if there was anything to this beyond, as Quentin would say, fucking bullshit. After all, he wasn’t really Tarantino movie material, was he?

 

The temporary thrill of talking to an A-list director faded away as he approached the table and found that Hugh hadn’t returned yet. In fact, he was coming from the other direction and the two of them were taking in the same tableau: Stephen and Gaby, alone together, with Stephen practically caressing Gaby’s hand as he looked into her eyes. If Bobby didn’t know better, he’d be getting jealous hackles up. Knowing better only made things worse. What the hell were they talking about and how could he find out without serious self-incrimination?

 

At least there would be no lingering over dessert and coffee. They were due at Lisa’s to watch the election returns. Her brownies were legendary on the House set. Not that he should be eating brownies anyway. Or prime rib. Or whatever the appetizer had been that he could no longer remember but knew was too rich anyway. 

 

Just when he thought or at least hoped that he could at least get away from the overbearing, intimidating Mr. Fry, who’d already managed to snag the check, it turned out that Hugh and Stephen were planning to tag along to Lisa’s place in Brentwood. 

 

“I thought we’d see your little democracy in action,” Stephen uttered in a tone so pompous Bobby was half tempted to take a punch at him, something extremely unlike him and for all he knew dangerous to his own health. It was Hugh who did the boxing and at that minute Bobby wasn’t sure whose side he would take. 

 

“What the hell?” he sniped when they were in the car. “It’s not their damned election.” 

 

“Just because Americans don’t give a damn about the rest of the world unless we’re busy invading it doesn’t mean the rest of the world is as shallow as we are,” she snapped back, reminding him that he had bigger problems than British gatecrashers.

 

“Right,” he said, thinking that he was in deep shit, but not knowing what kind. If Stephen had actually said something about him and Hugh…Would she still be in the car with him, speaking at all? 

 

He was driving because it was late and he sort of knew the way, giving her the opportunity to make phone calls in at least three languages he didn’t understand. He put on NPR to try to get some idea of which way the election was going, but she quickly reached out to turn it off with a glare in his direction, still speaking fluent German, which always made her sound angry even if she wasn’t. 

 

What kind of conversation was going on in Hugh’s Volvo, trailing behind them, he could only imagine. Gaby managed to keep up her conversations until they’d reached Brentwood. 

 

Lisa greeted them in bare feet, jeans and a dark green sweater, with hugs, kisses and happy word of the Democrats making gains that looked very hopeful. Bobby couldn’t help notice the reaction as they entered and the party-goers, including actors, producers and writers, many of whom had Emmys on their resumes if not actual mantelpieces, positively gawked at the sight of Stephen Fry, temporarily ignoring the large screen TV tuned to CNN. Jesse, for one, looked awfully star struck. 

 

“Where’s Jen?” he asked Lisa, searching for familiar faces.

 

“Other room. Watching the show.”

 

As advertised, he found Jennifer along with Josh Malina and some other people he thought he should recognize, but didn’t, sitting in the kitchen watching House MD on a small television set. Jen had Bug happily sitting on her lap. She smiled at him but didn’t seem inclined to disturb the cat by getting up. 

 

He came around to glance at the set, grabbing a brownie on the way. It was the episode with the severely obese patient. He hadn’t worked with Pruitt at all, but it didn’t matter because he’d been absolutely giddy about his first scene with David Morse. He tried not to wonder how that scene would look to Quentin or for that matter to Uma. Uma would probably read some sexual innuendo into House squirting his tomato on Wilson’s lab-coat.

 

“If you want to meet Stephen Fry, now’s your big chance.” Josh got up instantly, practically skidding on the kitchen tiles on the way. Jennifer shrugged indifferently, winning Bobby’s love and admiration for at least five minutes. They both focused on the screen, where Cameron was actually showing more backbone than usual. He caught the rapt look of attention on Jen’s face and kept his Norma Desmond jokes to himself. So much for love and admiration. 

 

“I’m going to go get some air,” he only half-lied. He needed oxygen, but he was really going to the backyard to spend time with Lisa’s other babies. 

 

Wolf E. came running up immediately followed by Sandwich. 

 

“Hey, guys. How ya doing.” 

 

He crouched down to pet the dogs. They greeted him happily with hand licks and doggie kisses. Sometimes he came over here just to hang with Lisa’s pets when he missed his own too much. 

 

“Where’s Bump? You here, Bumpers?” he called into the darkness. Bump was the shyest of the rescue dogs, but he wasn’t going to be left out of the festivities for long. 

 

Maybe he could just ignore the whole rest of the party and stay out here until it was time to go home. He’d already heard a rousing cheer from the living room that he took to be confirmation that the Democrats would definitely take the house. Great. And in the end, so what? Two more years of Bush. Gaby was leaving. She was pissed at him for some reason that must have something to do with Stephen. Shit. 

 

“I thought I might find you out here cheating on me.” It was Hugh. 

 

“Cheating?”

 

“I know heavy petting when I see it.” 

 

He stood up, and being that close to Hugh alone in the dark was almost too much. He wanted to kiss him, wanted Hugh’s arms around him, wanted to feel…That afternoon had been…God, he shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Not when Hugh was so damned close. Not while Gaby was inside. Not when he was tied up in knots of guilt and fear.

 

“Did you talk to Stephen? Do you know what he said to Gaby?”

 

“He’s being enigmatic. All he’ll say is that he wouldn’t do anything that might hurt Jo, which is of course another way of accusing me of doing just that.” 

 

“I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

 

Hugh didn’t answer, and Bobby interpreted the silence to mean something along the lines of “you knew what you were getting into.” Except of course he hadn’t. Had no clue that he was going find himself begging for fingers up his ass, much less falling in love with their owner. 

 

“Hugh…I don’t want to lose Gaby.” 

 

What was he saying? Was it his turn to try and put an end to this? Was he about to say something that would leave both of them “hurting like bloody hell?” 

 

Hugh was moving closer. Bobby could feel him even though they weren’t actually touching. 

 

“What do you want, Bobby?”

 

Before he could say something stupid or noble or grab Hugh and shut him up, Gaby came through the door, sending the dogs scurrying away. It was hard to read her expression in the dim light available from the house, but her voice was tense, even though she moved into his arms for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

 

“Bob…can we go home?”

 

“You don’t want to watch some more…?”

 

“I’m tired. It’s all starting to catch up. I’m just really, really tired.”

 

“I’m not surprised. You’ve had quite a day,” Hugh agreed. Gaby looked somewhat annoyed to find him there. Maybe she’d heard something. Or just seen them and read the body language.

 

“OK, honey, let’s go say goodbye to Lisa.”

 

He was breathing a sigh of relief at whatever bullet had been dodged for the time being when his cell phone went off in his jacket pocket and he pulled it out, with a pretty good idea who it was.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Bobby! Oh my god. That was amazing. The look on your face when you realized he forged the signature. I thought you were going to cry.”

 

“Uma…” he tried to shut up her up long enough to ask what Quentin had thought. That’s when he caught the look on Gaby’s face and it was pure hurt and betrayal.

 

“It’s true,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly.

 

“No!” he screamed, but it was too late. Uma was talking about the tomato, Gaby had run inside and Bobby knew exactly what Stephen had told her.  
*****

Stephen couldn’t understand why Hugh was always complaining about Hollywood. He, for one, was having a thoroughly lovely evening, almost as much fun as the night he’d ended up chatting with Courtney Love. The guests at Ms. Edelstein’s party were most attentive as he bestowed bon mots between various bits of news, both good and bad, from around the country. The Aussie boy, he reckoned, could certainly be had, especially as his lady-love was currently more interested in whatever was going on in the kitchen. 

 

The attention turned back to the election results as the numbers swung irrevocably to the Democratic column and glasses were raised. 

 

From his vantage point on the sofa, Stephen noticed that neither Hugh nor his co-star were present to toast the victory. He was having too good a time to mention it – or to bring the mood down by reminding the assemblage that their rebellious founding fathers hadn’t had the sense to adopt the parliamentary form of government and they were still stuck with that lunatic for another two years. Why bother? Tonight was for happiness. Except for Gaby, of course. He’d felt a pang of conscience as he took her hand and told the slightest bit of a white lie about her Bob and a certain blonde siren. 

 

You might say he’d been kind. After all, the bastard _was_ cheating on her. And it had to be better for his future if he were thought to be sleeping with a glamorous female. Americans were still a bit squeamish about the other thing. 

 

He could hardly believe the luck of Ms. Thurman making an actual appearance and young Robert proceeding to dig his own grave. Perhaps Gabriella would find herself a more deserving chap among those brawny Sabras. 

 

Or maybe, just maybe, Robert would be able to convince her of his innocence and be frightened enough to break things off with Hugh. He knew the notion was rubbish, but it was too pretty a picture to abandon until he absolutely had to. 

 

As he continued dispensing anecdotes, he lost track of time. Only when he saw a distraught Gaby moving toward the front door with a clearly panicked Robert following close after, did he glance down at his watch to see that it was a few minutes past ten. Awfully nice of Hugh to mention Ms. Thurman’s habit of making a call to Robert almost immediately after the broadcast and even nicer of her to follow suit. It was as if he’d choreographed the whole event himself. He allowed himself a few more steps of his internal victory dance until he was brought up short by the sight of Hugh looming over him, hands buried tightly in his jacket pockets. 

 

“Moment of your time,” he muttered through gritted teeth, while Stephen was holding forth on the more ludicrous security precautions at Charles’ and Camilla’s wedding.

 

“Now?” he asked, feigning mild surprise at the interruption. 

 

“Now.” There was a hint of menace in Hugh’s voice. 

 

Stephen felt an unpleasant wave of guilt rising through his stomach and torso as he got up and followed Hugh into a hallway, hopefully out of earshot of the other guests. 

 

Hugh’s gaze assaulted Stephen with the full force of his anger. Stephen tried to maintain his defiant self-righteousness, but quickly gave in, lowering his eyes.

 

“Fix this,” Hugh demanded coldly. 

 

“Bit late, I think.”

 

“I know you better than that. I’m sure you left some loophole for yourself.”

 

“Why should I do anything for _him_?” he answered, hearing the petulance in his own voice. He knew where this was going.

 

“Not for him. For me.”

 

“Well, of course. Because I’ll do anything for you.”

 

“Stephen, you have to believe me. I never meant this to happen and I certainly didn’t do it to hurt you. If I wasn’t honest right away, it’s because I wasn’t honest with myself. I’ll always need you and I’ll always love you, but right now I need you to be my friend, because I can’t get through this…” he gestured around vaguely to indicate his Hollywood purgatory, “…without him.”

 

Stephen felt himself starting to break. Driven by anger and jealousy, he’d gone too far by a long shot. Hugh had always been like this and expecting anything else was pure self-destruction, leading to the dark place he’d been in and the bleakness he’d be facing when this was over. 

 

He struggled to maintain the dignity that was rapidly eroding 

 

“Someday?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too pathetic. 

 

The best Hugh could concede was a shrug and a cool kiss placed on Stephen’s cheek, before pulling him out through the living room, a not-unpleasantly firm hand on his arm. 

 

They smiled and waved as though making a simple, if abrupt, exit until they were out the front door. There was no sight of Robert or Gaby. Stephen felt a flicker of hope that he wouldn’t be forced to do this. Maybe they’d at least decided to have it out somewhere besides a street corner in an affluent Hollywood suburb. But Hugh continued steering him until they came upon the couple a block from Lisa’s home. 

 

The fight had reached the “Give me the keys; I never want to see you again” phase. Robert’s tie was half off, his hair disheveled, and Gaby had tears streaking her face. 

 

“Gaby, you have got to believe me.” 

 

“No. I don’t. I can’t. Does everybody know? Do they all feel sorry for me? What about Ethan? Does he know? Should I call him?”

 

“NO!” 

 

That was an impressive yelp. 

 

“Gabriella, I need to speak with you.”

 

“Stephen?” She looked up at him as though he were her only friend in the world. “Can you please drive me home? This prick won’t give me the car keys.”

 

“Unfortunately, I’ve been deprived of my driving privileges. I’m at the mercy of this madman.”

 

The madman still had a hand on his arm with no apparent intention of relinquishing the grasp until peace was restored. 

 

Gaby turned her gaze on Hugh with a mixture of anger and disgust.

 

“You knew.”

 

“No,” he blurted, and Stephen realized he had to take charge before Hugh made a bigger hash of things. 

 

“Gaby, please listen to me. It appears I made an error. I owe you and Robert a profound apology. I misunderstood and I shouldn’t have passed on such loathsome gossip. I'm terribly, terribly sorry.” 

 

Gaby started shaking her head in what Stephen could only imagine was a mixture of disbelief and confusion. He felt Hugh’s fingers relax their grip, but it was Robert mouthing “thank you” that got the actual tears into his eyes, which was how he knew he’d finally done the right thing.  
*****

Bobby needed to talk to someone, but it was late, which meant it was even later in New York. 

 

After a day of rehearsals, a yoga class, some kind of election festivities and who knows what else, Ethan probably wouldn’t appreciate a middle-of-the-night phone call. 

 

Anyway, he could pretty much imagine the other end of the conversation, including the sleepy disorientation and annoyance followed by prurient interest. 

 

_He did what?_

_You and… but that’s crazy!_

_Why didn’t he just tell her about…oh!_

_…Just said it was all a mistake?_

_Fuck, man!_

_Dude?_

_Did she believe him?_

 

“I don’t know,” he said to himself, hanging up the mental phone.

 

Stephen had spoken eloquently and urgently, attempting to undo the damage caused by repeating the “base canard” regarding Bobby and Uma. He blamed it all on rumor, innuendo and a misunderstanding between himself and Hugh over the nature of Bobby and Uma’s friendship.

 

Hugh then weighed in, explaining that he had been misguided in his concerns over Bobby’s conversations with Uma when it was only innocent chatter about the show and the possibility of working together in Tarantino’s next production. 

 

Finally Bobby had been allowed to speak for himself, telling Gaby how much he loved her and that no matter how much he missed her, even if he were going to (which he wasn’t) he would never, ever with Uma, because he knew how much that would hurt her. He tried not to think of Hugh, just feet away, listening to him declare undying love to his fiancée, and meaning it, until he remember that Hugh enacted similar scenes every time he went home to Jo, and meant them. 

 

He supposed he was lucky Lisa’s street was secluded enough for the drama to play without interruption by tourists or paparazzi until Bobby was hoarse, Gaby had stopped shouting and Stephen appeared to be on the verge of tears with guilt and remorse. That was going to be Hugh’s problem to deal with. His was Gaby. 

 

She’d finally agreed to get in the car and come back to Venice, even agreeing to his suggestion that she take a nice hot bath, unaware that he was using the time to change the sheets in case she was still in a suspicious frame of mind. He could barely look at the bed without thinking of what he’d done there with Hugh that afternoon and all the other times. 

 

With the relief of getting out of the damned suit and back into a t-shirt and jeans came the thought that maybe he should have manned up and told Gaby the truth. 

 

_I’m not having an affair with Uma. (Are you crazy?) I’m fucking Hugh and I don’t think I can stop. Oh, by the way, I’ve fallen in love with him, but I still want to keep things the way they’ve always been between us. You’re okay with that, right?_

 

Maybe not.

 

He found her in the living room, sitting on the couch. She wore a pink terry-cloth robe and was idly playing with the remote control. The silence between them felt brittle. It was like being in an O’Neill play without the brilliant dialogue. 

 

“Should I delete this?” she said sounding nearly normal.

 

He noticed that she had highlighted “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno,” the one with Hugh.

 

_No. No. No. No!_

 

“Oh, why not leave it. The Cheetah Girls were amazing.”

 

Gaby smiled at that. Bobby just hoped she wouldn’t look too closely at the list and notice “Inside The Actor’s Studio” still there from July. At least there was no way for her to tell how many times he’d watched it or what he’d been doing during some of them. 

 

“You want some wine? It’s been a long day,” he offered, still not sure exactly where they stood. 

 

She switched the set to live television, and started idly surfing through old movies and home shopping channels. 

 

“I saw some herbal tea. That would be nice.”

 

He nodded, hesitant to leave her alone with the remote in case she landed on a Lifetime made-for-TV movie about a brilliant, accomplished woman and the scumbag who’s doing her dirt. He could end up dead and the audience would cheer. 

 

“Bob,” she said softly, almost too calmly. _Here it comes._ “I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?” he asked, mystified.

 

“I shouldn’t have gone off like that. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be friends with her.” 

 

The mixture of guilt and relief was overwhelming. 

 

“It’s OK. I’m sure it looked really bad. Especially if Stephen thought it was true.” 

 

“But I know _you._ You wouldn’t do that. Stephen’s sweet, but sometimes he’s very sad and it makes him believe the worst about people.” 

 

Bobby walked to the couch and Gaby rose to meet him for a hug. 

 

“I love you, Bob.”

 

“Love you too.” 

 

He meant it, still couldn’t imagine life without her, even if she was going to be in Israel while he was going to be in Hollywood…with Hugh. 

 

“Just one thing.”

 

“You still want that tea?”

 

“If something does happen, someday, just promise me you won’t lie to me about it.” 

 

“Of course not,” he agreed, knowing even that was a lie, because something had happened and he couldn’t stop. Hugh managed to make it work and so would he.

 

He just needed more practice.


End file.
